


take to the streets with apocalypse refrain

by thismagichour



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Asexual Character, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Nightmares, Spoilers through 162, for at least a few more days until it gets jossed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-02-23 12:49:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23645005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thismagichour/pseuds/thismagichour
Summary: The nights before Jon and Martin leave the cabin, Martin dreams, and Jon watches. There are so many things that don't want Martin to go.Alternatively - "5 times Martin almost says "I love you""
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 9
Kudos: 111





	take to the streets with apocalypse refrain

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in a series of feverish nights around 3am, and I needed to put it out in the world before it's completely jossed somehow, despite me trying to keep everything relatively vague. This is my first TMA fic and also like, the first fic I've ever written that wasn't in a literal High Fantasy world, so???? Godspeed to all of us. No beta or britpicker, we die like men

Martin Blackwood is dreaming and the world is wrong. His hands are numb. There’s a haze over his eyes, or maybe over the world, or maybe over his heart. He’s cold, like he’s been walking for ages, but he doesn’t remember how he got here. The tide rolls in. He watches the water wash over his shoes with some detachment. His feet must be wet, but he doesn’t feel it. His shoes are going to be ruined. Why doesn’t he feel it? Does it matter? The fog comes, and it covers all. 

_I am alone_ , Martin thinks suddenly, apropos of nothing, and it echoes in his own head. The words splay out over the shore, and there is no response, because there is nothing to respond to, and no one to respond. The whole world is empty and there’s nothing and there has always been nothing and there will always be nothing and the fog smothers him and it is a comfort, the feeling of coming home at last, and all he thinks is _finally_. 

Martin opens his eyes to the ceiling of a cottage in the Scottish Highlands, and he can’t feel his hands. He’s shaking, he realizes. When he turns over, Jon is there, eyes wandering under closed eyelids, walking through nightmares. Not sleeping, Martin knows. Martin reaches out to him, just to prove to himself that this is real, that the shore is the dream, not the other way around. Jon flinches when Martin brushes his face with soft fingertips. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” Martin says, a little thickly, because his lips are numb with cold. 

“You didn’t,” Jon says gently, and Martin is always surprised by how gentle Jon is, how soft, even though he’s known for years. 

“But-“

“You’re freezing, Martin,” Jon responds, and takes his hand in two smaller ones. 

“Sorry,” Martin repeats. Jon shakes his head, as if to ward off the apology. Jon looks at him in the early light, really sees him, and shuffles in closer, pressing Martin’s hands up under Jon’s threadbare shirt, to touch feverishly hot skin. Neither of them acknowledge that Jon is only ever warm when Seeing. Martin allows himself to be maneuvered onto his back so Jon can clamber over him, to put most of his lean body on top of Martin’s, a radiator against the winter of Martin’s skin. They stay like that for a long time. Eventually, Martin’s shivering calms, and Jon’s heat tapers off, as they find equilibrium in each other’s arms. _I love you_ , Martin thinks, but he doesn’t say it.

Jon spends a lot of time grieving. And no matter how Martin tries to comfort him, _I ended the world_ always lies there between them. 

“Maybe it’s better this way,” Martin says quietly, one night, unsure of his welcome and hovering, always hovering. 

“You don’t mean that,” Jon says, agonized. 

“No,” Martin says. 

“I’m sorry,” Jon says. 

“That’s my line,” Martin says. An old joke, stale, but both of them force a chuckle anyway. Martin remembers that he’s allowed, he keeps remembering, and he sits on the bed on Jon’s side, drawing him in. Jon is freezing, and Martin shivers a little when Jon’s nose touches his neck. 

Jon is often cold these days, except for when Martin is colder. The Lonely likes to tug at Martin’s edges, especially at night, but it has less strength to pull him now. Martin wonders if he’s still human. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t really care either. He’s told Jon it doesn’t matter, and it doesn’t. Neither of them have to be human to feel like this. _It doesn’t stop me loving you_ , he thinks, but he keeps quiet. 

Martin Blackwood is dreaming and the world is wrong. He knows he is dreaming, but this isn’t the Lonely, and the cold shock of the knowledge numbs him in horror. He is growing more powerful over the Lonely’s pull, and that comfort has apparently been deemed unworthy of this new world. 

Jon is there. He is not Jon. He cries like Jon, he takes his tea just like Jon, he sounds and tastes like Jon, but he is not Jon. How long did it take for Martin to notice? Was it immediately? Does Jon live so bone deep in Martin that there was never any doubt? Or did it take longer? Was it when Jon braided his hair on his own, though he used to ask Martin? Or when Jon touched him on this side of lust? Martin doesn’t remember now. 

He won’t say anything, of course, because even not Jon loving him is better than not being loved by any version of Jon at all. He already has forgotten his Jon’s face. He can pretend he doesn’t remember how he used to bend over further to kiss Jon’s mouth. 

_I love you_ , Martin says. He’s never said it to his Jon, because saying it would mean someone would take it away from him. It’s already been taken away from him. He can say it as much as he likes. _I love you I love you I love you._

When Martin wakes, Jon is quiet. He is crying, but he often does at night, when all the dreams in their broken world press in on him. Martin reaches out a hand to him and Jon takes it in his ruined one. 

“I can never wake you,” Jon says. 

“I’m okay, really,” Martin says. It isn’t a lie. His life has been so much a nightmare for most of it, anyway. It feels melodramatic to think it. 

“You’re stronger than I am,” Jon says, squeezing his hand as much as he can. 

“Yeah,” Martin says, and grins. Jon scrunches his nose the way he does whenever Martin makes a joke and Martin loves him. Martin spends their next little forever re-memorizing Jon’s face. 

Jon isn’t any different now. Even though the world is ended, even though Jonah Magnus used him as a tool, as a thing to be thrown away, he’s still Jon. There’s only one unsettling new thing about him, really, and it’s just that, when he forgets himself, he is perfectly still. More than perfectly still. Preternaturally still. It seems like Jon doesn’t need to breathe anymore, just sort of does it out of habit, and sometimes he forgets himself. Martin hasn’t mentioned it, and he doesn’t really plan to, Jon is struggling enough as it is. It is exhausting, trying to hold Jon together, and he doesn’t resent it a bit, but-

“Martin, I’m sorry,” Jon says, breaking him from his thoughts, and there’s something off about Jon’s voice, but Martin can’t quite pinpoint it. He turns over in bed sees the reason instantly. Jon is Seeing. The pockmark scars Jane Prentiss have become small eyes, and there is an unnatural light in all of them. Martin scrambles to pull Jon’s face against his neck, which quickly becomes wet with slightly acidic tears. Martin doesn’t flinch. He’s had worse than this. 

“Don’t apologize, you can’t help it. You’re fine,” Martin soothes, “just listen to my voice, don’t listen to all that, just me.”

“I can hear you,” Jon says into the skin of Martin’s neck. Martin thinks again fiercely, for what may be the millionth time, _this is mine this is mine this is mine_. 

What he says lightly instead is, “I should hope so, I’m talking.” He’s always been good at playing at easygoing; his mother made him a liar young. He’s grateful for it now, too late to tell her. 

“No, before. I could...hear you,” Jon says, pained. 

“Before?” Martin says blankly, before it registers, “you could hear my thoughts?” He can taste the static on his tongue, he didn’t mean it, but it still comes out sometimes when he’s tired, or upset, and already he feels unmoored from the world, like he might just float away from here and now, and wouldn’t that be _easier_ -

“Don’t,” Jon begs, tightening his grip, and Martin solidifies again. Jon needs him. When Jon doesn’t-

“Martin,” Jon says, more firmly, “I’ll always need you. Stay here with me.”

“Sorry,” Martin says, and there’s no static left, partly surprising him. 

“Don’t apologize,” Jon says, “I’m the one that’s sorry.”

“You can’t help it,” Martin repeats, but even he hears how flat it sounds. 

“I try to block it out as much as possible,” Jon says, “but it’s harder at night when everything’s quiet. I’m trying.”

“I know, Jon,” Martin sighs. “It’s okay.”

“I wish I could be better for you,” Jon says. “I wish I weren’t... this.” Both of them know that isn’t what he meant to say. The word _monster_ hangs in the air over them. 

“You’re not,” Martin says. “Don’t even think it.” They’ve had this conversation every way it could be had. Martin and Jon could both do this in their sleep, if Jon slept. 

“I’m not human,” Jon says. Martin presses his lips together. His dreams have been pointed, lately, and he knows Jon has seen them, but it’s possible Jon hasn’t put it together yet. 

“Neither am I, probably,” he says, finally. This apparently shocks Jon enough for him to pull his face from where it was buried in Martin’s neck. This is a new twist on this fight, a different variable. 

“What?” Jon manages. 

“I said-“

“Yes, yes, I heard what you said,” Jon snaps. “Why would you say that?”

“Because I’m fairly certain it’s true,” Martin says, and he knows Jon didn’t mean to compel him, but he welcomes it. He lets the fog come. “Because Peter Lukas or any of the rest of them haven’t got any hold on me. Because I’m getting stronger, every day. Because I feel like if I tried, I could send us both back there.” 

“Alright,” Jon says loudly, and his eyes glow a bit brighter. Martin focuses, on Jon’s warmth and his eyelashes and the weight of his arms. Jon grits his teeth as his glow fades. The two of them breathe together. They settle. 

“I’m sorry,” Martin says. His voices cracks. Jon squeezes back into Martin’s side. 

“No, no,” Jon says quickly, “this is good, it will protect you out there. It’ll make everything less likely to kill us. This is good.”

“Ha!” Martin says. “Exactly!” 

“Sorry?”

“Being not human is good right now. It’s necessary for both of us if we hope to survive out there. So enough about you being an inhuman monster or whatever. That’s what we need. And besides,” Martin says, softening, “you didn’t choose this. I did. So if anyone is the monster, it’s me.”

“You’re not,” Jon says. 

“Thank you,” Martin says. 

“Why?” Jon says, after a time. Martin doesn’t need to ask what he means. 

“Because I didn’t want to live in a world where you and Tim and Sasha and everything I ever loved was gone. Nothing mattered,” Martin says simply. 

“Martin,” Jon says.

“Everything’s different now, obviously,” Martin says. 

“I love you,” Jon says. 

“Yes,” Martin says.

Martin Blackwood is dreaming and the world is wrong. Sunlight kisses his face through the open curtain, and it is the quiet that one would typically expect in the country, before. He is pleasantly warm, and his arm is loosely thrown over Jon in bed next to him. Jon is watching him with a smile. 

“It’s early still,” Jon says softly. Martin nods. He takes Jon’s ruined hand, kisses the fingertips one by one. He takes Jon’s other hand and does the same. He presses his lips against both palms, presses the two hands together, kisses Jon’s thumbs. Jon huffs at him. Martin gives him his hands back, and Jon uses to opportunity to take Martin’s face in them. Martin feels precious, and loved, and warm, and like he could stay here forever. 

“We’re supposed to leave this morning,” Jon says, still hushed. 

“Are we?” Martin says, voice rough from sleep. 

“Not here,” Jon says, “back there.” Right. Not here in the before - in the After. Martin thinks of the howling wind, the fear. They’re leaving the cottage today. He had been so desperate to leave last night, but Jon had talked him into being as well rested as he could manage.

“We don’t have to go just yet,” Jon says. “We could stay until we make a better plan. We could be safe just a little longer.”

“I’m not supposed to be here,” Martin says. He places his hands on top of Jon’s, still resting on his face. The flesh gives unnaturally. 

“Please stay with me, Martin,” Jon says, and he is beautiful. Martin wants it so desperately, to stay here, legs tangled, sunlight streaming through the window. They could go see the cows later. He could make tea that would actually be tea. They could be happy. 

“Oh, Jon,” Martin says, “absolutely not.” 

“You can’t leave,” Jon says. “Everyone always leaves me.” Martin feels the compulsion in the air; Jon’s finger clamp down hard into his jaw. The soft flesh of Martin’s face begins to give way. 

“You’ve got it wrong way round,” Martin says. He feels the fog dripping from him, and Jon’s hands pass through Nothing, because that’s what Martin is. 

And he wakes up. Jon is watching him pensively. The window creaks the same old tune. There are screams far off. There isn’t sunlight, and there hasn’t been for days. It’s Martin this time who smiles. 

“Well, that’s new,” he says. 

“It’s certainly of interest,” Jon says. 

“Oh, I dunno, it seemed pretty straight forward to me. The cabin doesn’t want to let us go.”

“A fool’s errand trying to convince you,” Jon says, fond. 

“It might have better luck with you, but you don’t sleep, so.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

“Often am,” Martin says, grin widening. “Now, everything’s already packed, so I’ll freshen up and we’re ready to go.” He sits up and swings his legs off the bed, ignoring the ache in his jaw where the dream’s fingernails sunk in. 

“Just like that?” Jon says. 

“No point in waiting, is there?” Martin says, already halfway to the bathroom. He brushes his teeth, fixes his hair, and returns to Jon, who’s done nothing but put shoes on. His hair is still pulled into a messy bun that’s falling out. Martin, exasperated, takes out Jon’s hair and begins to braid it, easily. Jon tilts his head back into the touch. _You might never get the chance again_ , Martin thinks.

“Jon, before we leave and things get, well, worse,” Martin says, finishing the end of Jon’s hair with deft fingers, his heart in his throat, “I’ve never said that I lo-“

“Now really Martin,” Jon interrupts scornfully, “I’m not even superstitious but this is ridiculous.” 

“Sorry?” Martin says. Jon turns and kisses Martin’s palm. 

“If you say it now, I’ll be hit by a flying ice cream van the second we walk out the door,” Jon says. “Save it.”

“An ice cream van is high on your list of eldritch horrors, is it?” Martin says. 

“Can’t be too careful,” Jon says, smiling. “Tell me once you’ve saved the world.”

“Me?”

“Of course, Martin,” Jon says easily, taking his hand, “you’re the hero.” Martin laughs. 

“I don’t know if I like the sound of that,” he says.

“I can’t think of a better ending,” Jon says. And with that, they walk out into the wasteland of what was once the earth. To save the world. To probably die badly. But they’ll be together. The world is wrong, and Martin Blackwood dreams. 

**Author's Note:**

> Well, that's it! It's over! Leave a comment and go on your way! 
> 
> Well, also, join me @calebwidogasts on tumblr where I'm screaming about The Magnus Archives 24/7 (at least until CR comes back).


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